By Danielle Buckery

His voice was deep and mellifluous — almost intoxicating. There was no doubt in my mind that the message being delivered was anything short of omnipotent. Both the context of the words and the manner in which he spoke permeated the message of Du Bois in a sweet air of mystique and glorification. As I sat beside my uncle, I found that I could not suppress the deep wave of numbness that flooded through my bloodstream; my limbs paralyzed. I was barely conscious of the tears which caressed my cheekbones, forming a diminutive puddle at the base of my chin. These words, the words of W.E.B. Du Bois, were of great magnitude; pregnant with meaning. There he sat, Uncle Vincent, reading The Souls of Black Folk with as much energy and enthusiasm as he could congregate; speaking in a clear-turquoise voice.

After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world-a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others… One ever feels his twoness — an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being tom asunder… He would not Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world (Du Bois 3).

“Beautiful,” I whispered, once Uncle Vincent had finished reading. My voice was low, barely audible — clandestine. I knew not, whether the softness of my voice was an act of subconscious vocalization or if I did not want my uncle to discover that I had detected a painful truth in Du Bois’ message. Gradually, I became aware of certain physical elements I had grown oblivious to over the years: the tawny coloring of my flesh — a unique mixture between that of my father’s rich chocolate and my mother’s vanilla-ginger. The rich, deep luster of Grandpa Walter’s dark coffee skin; the ivory-yellow paleness of Grandma Myrtle’s fair winter complexion-the captivating color of Grandpa Joshua’s blue-gray eyes. Looking back on it, he was the only blue-eyed black man I had ever met. Had Du Bois explored his theory of the double-consciousness even further, he would have, perhaps, applied the idea of the “triple” and “quadruple” consciousness to individuals like Grandpa Joshua.

Du Bois’ double-consciousness referred to the reality of being both black and American. Neither of the two realities would allow the other to exist in sweet serenity. How can one reconcile such a complexity? I reflected upon Du Bois’ words once more: “He would not Africanize America… He would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism…” How should one go about prioritizing such an enigmatic reality? Is he fIrst black, or is he first an American? Should it even matter?

I found myself, again, thinking of my grandfather, Joshua Hunt, recollecting an odd mixture of memory and fact. Joshua Hunt: born in Port of Spain, Trinidad in 1902.

He first arrived in the United States as an indentured servant. A delightful fellow whose strength and pride lit an electric flfe in his pale blue eyes. My mind raced, rehashing everything I knew about the culture and heritage of Grandpa’s background. It is said that my grandfather’s family was of a great and odd mixture; possessing the blood of West

Africa: Ghana, Nigeria and Sierra Leone. They, too, possessed the blood of the English, French and Portuguese. Negligent, in their eyes, was the tiny portion of “Native Indian” and East Asian blood flowing through their veins: the blood of Siam and Japan. I often smile at the prospect of Grandpa’s great-great-great grandmother being a geisha; a woman of great elegance and exoticism.

What, then, would be an appropriate title for my grandfather? A Trinidadian? A West Indian? An American? A black man? A man of African decent? A man of European decent? A man of Asian decent? There is no way that the premise of Du Bois’ double- consciousness could accurately define my grandfather. The double-consciousness dissects and explores the psyche of the African-descended man in America. So, what are we to do with the “African-American” who is not exclusively of African decent? How is he categorized? What level of consciousness does he possess? Does he even posses a cultural and patriotic consciousness? There was only one way to answer these questions. I was to read Du Bois again. In doing so, I came across a rather interesting passage. In a chapter entitled Of the Passing of the First-Born, Du Bois wrote of his son — one who clearly sported the blood of Africa and Europe:

How beautiful he was, with his olive-tinted flesh and dark gold ringlets, his eyes of mingled blue and brown… the blood of Africa had moulded into his features… Why was his hair tinted with gold? … Why had not the brown of his eyes crushed out and killed the blue? …And thus in the Land of the Color-line I saw, as it fell across my baby, the shadow of the Veil (170).

The veil, of which Du Bois writes, is a theoretical blurring of one’s mental vision. It grants an individual a clouded, indistinct view of himself; awarding him little knowledge and truth as to who he really is. My eyes moistened with tears, once more, as I thought of Du Bois message: “the Negro is… born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world-a world which yields him no true self-consciousness…” The veil; an opaque vision, defined by neither falsehood nor truth. The “eighth-generation” African-American does not necessarily see himself as a native African would. This is not to say that he is unable to do so, but his psyche has been tainted; compromised by White-America for more than twenty generations. He would never be categorized as “white,” even if he is of “mixed blood,” for the white community is exclusive; austere. White-America created “the one-drop rule” or the law of “hypo-descent,” exclaiming African blood to be a contaminant. Therefore, an individual with any degree of African blood, no matter how miniscule the percentage, is “black.” Hence, the “brown-skinned” woman of French and Kenyan blood will never be categorized as white; however, her blackness is still viewed as partial, inauthentic–equivocal.

Again, I ask, how does the “nontraditional” African-descended person in America view himself? It seems he can only view himself through a veil; a clouded prospect, an apparition. Perhaps W.E.B. Du Bois’ theory holds some weight to it after all. This American world yields him no true self-consciousness, rather, lets him see himself, only, “through the revelation of the other world.” Du Bois’ message became clear when I thought of my grandfather, Joshua Hunt, comparing him to Du Bois’ son: “How beautiful he was with his olive-tinted flesh… his eyes of mingled blue and brown.” Grandpa Joshua: olive-tinted skin, eyes of mingled blue and gray. What a paradoxical world he must live in: A Trinidadian, a black man, an American. He could never escape one world for another. The brown of his skin was forever reminiscent of Africa. The pale, blue-gray of his eyes belonged to the blood of Europe. Joshua Hunt and others like him certainly face a double consciousness and, perhaps, myriad levels of this awareness. It would certainly seem that Du Bois’ veil yields no true self-consciousness; merely a distorted reality.

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